Mrs. Wright had been waiting in great anxiety for the return of Jack.
Twenty times over she went to the end of the sandy path to see if the
tide was going out, and returned in an anxious state of mind to make
preparations for the drenched party. She reproached herself bitterly for
carelessness. How could she have trusted so entirely to Julien? She
ought to have known he was ignorant of the tides, if not of the caves.
Her anxiety was almost more than she could bear by the time the tide had
left the gorge. Then she stood on the beach to watch, and it was with a
cry of delight that she saw the three coming towards her.
They were all glad of the hot meal which smoked upon the table in
readiness for their return, and sat down in very cheerful spirits, in
spite of their damp condition. But it was not so pleasant to be hurried
off immediately afterwards to bed and warm blankets. Julien, who had not
shown much appetite, and still looked pale and shivery, refused to go to
bed. Jack would have compelled him, but the boy begged to be allowed to
go home, as he felt ill. It really seemed the best thing to do; so,
wrapping him up in a big coat, Jack took him to the Préfet's house, and
handed him over to his mother's care, not forgetting to say a few words
in praise of the courage the boy had shown.
'Now, Jack,' said Mrs. Wright, as he entered the warm kitchen on his
return, 'if you want to do something to please me, my son, you will just
go and take your wet things off, and turn in for a bit. I will bring you
some hot cocoa in a minute.'
Jack laughed; then, stooping, he took his mother into his great arms,
kissed her, and went.
* * * * *
The day of Estelle's departure was drawing near. The boat had been
prepared, and Fargis had been amiable enough to offer to go with them,
taking his usual crew. He realised that his trouble would be paid for,
and probably handsomely paid for, into the bargain. The weather was in
favour of the crossing, so Estelle and Jack had come for a last walk on
the cliff before that sad day came. To Mrs. Wright and her son the loss
of the child was a deep sorrow; to Estelle, though she was going home to
her beloved Aunt Betty, to the kindest of uncles and aunts, to her most
loving cousins, it was a wrench. She loved those dear ones at home
deeply, truly. But she loved Goody and her dear, kind Jack. What should
she do when she could not see them? Tears came into her eyes, and made
the boats and the sea dim. She longed to ask Jack for one thing before
she went away. Went away! Oh, why must there be these partings?
Meantime, Jack grieved over the loss of his 'little Missie.' He was sad,
and would be sadder when the long winter evenings came, and he missed
her at every turn; but there were other anxieties. He must face that
English world again from which he had fled in the long years of the
past. For Estelle's sake, and because it was his duty, he must take her
back to her English home, and he was debating, painfully, bravely, what
that journey would mean to him. What would it mean to his mother? She
was the dearest and best tie he had in the world. For his sake she had
made sacrifices to which few mothers would have consented, had borne
hardships few would have faced so nobly. Had he any right, after all she
had done for him, to expose her to any chance of evils which this return
to England might bring upon him, and, through him, on her?
Estelle, looking up, saw the grief and perplexity in his face, and her
heart smote her for her own selfish thoughts. She did not understand how
he suffered, but she felt she must comfort him.
'Jack,' she said, swallowing down her tears, and speaking in as steady a
voice as she could muster--dear Jack, you have been so good and kind to
me! So good, I can't express it! Do let me do something for you. I know
you have a secret, and I am afraid it is that, even more than my going,
which is making you so miserable. I don't want to pry into it, dear
Jack, but remember that my father is a rich man, and he is powerful,
too. If you won't mind telling him about it, I know--I am quite, _quite_
sure--he will do anything in his power for you. Think what you have done
for me! And he loves me--he has only me now.'
Jack sat silent for some moments, his head on his arms, which were
crossed upon his knees.
'Missie,' he said at last, raising his face, 'nobody can help me. I want
no help such as your father, or any other rich, powerful man can give. I
know you mean it kindly, little girl, but there are some things in which
a man must stand and fall alone. Alone?' he added bitterly; 'yes, but he
doesn't suffer alone! He drags his dearest and best down with him, let
his remorse be what it may.'
'Remorse? Does that mean the man is sorry? Are you sorry for something
you have done? Oh, Jack, if you are sorry, Aunt Betty told me once that
was all that was wanted. Everybody forgives any one who is sorry.'
'I am not so very sure of that, Missie; but, in this case, there is no
question of forgiveness. There is no one to ask it of, for one thing;
and if there were, there are some things which can never be forgiven or
forgotten.'
'Are there?' murmured Estelle, a little bewildered.
'How should you know--an innocent child like you?' returned Jack,
shrinking into himself as if at some terrible recollection.
There was a long pause, while both sat thinking.
'Listen,' went on Estelle, at last. 'I will tell you a story. It is
quite true, for I know the man. He is the son of our head gardener. He
is a cross old man, and he is often not very nice to us children. But
Aunt Betty wanted to make us more patient with him; so she told us what
sorrows he had had. They have made _him_ rather grumpy, but his son is
_very_ different. The story is all about a great wrong done to that son,
and how he forgave it.'
She related the history of Dick Feet almost in the words in which her
aunt had told it to the children on the lawn that August afternoon.
Jack, listening but carelessly at first, gradually found an interest in
it which touched him keenly, but he would not have interrupted the child
for worlds. Not a word would he lose. It was so strangely like a story
he knew only too well!
'And the grand part was,' wound up the little girl, her earnest eyes on
Jack's anxious face, 'the grand part was that he never mentioned the
name of the man who did it--not even his father and mother know who it
was. He begged them not to mention it if he had by any chance let it out
in his illness. But he never had. No one in all the whole world knows
but Dick himself.'
'Was his name Dick, too?' muttered Jack to himself.
'Yes,' answered Estelle, who had heard the low murmur, 'his name is
Richard Peet.'
'What?' cried Jack, almost starting to his feet in his excitement. 'Is
Dick Peet alive?'
(_Continued on page 342._)
[Illustration: "'What! Is Dick Peet alive?'"]
[Illustration: "My partner being the lamp-post!"]
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By Harold Ericson.
VII.-AT THE ICE-HILLS.
[Illustration]
Does Bobby think he is the only one who can tell stories connected with
snow and ice?' said Denison, one evening; 'I, too, have been in high
latitudes. Have you ever enjoyed the experience of going down the
ice-hills at St. Petersburg, Bobby?'
'Rather,' replied Bobby, gazing into the fire. He smiled as he gazed;
the recollection seemed to be pleasant. 'I am still giddy when I think
of it,' he ended.
'Well, perhaps Vandeleur has not tried it. It's a kind of artificial
tobogganing, you know; they build up a wooden erection with a flight of
stairs behind, a platform at the top, and a steep slope covered with
slabs of ice going down from it, and leading straight into a level road
of ice some eight feet in width and a quarter of a mile in length; at
the end is a similar erection pointing back in the opposite direction,
the two ice runs or roads being side by side, and each ending at the
foot of the stairs leading to the other, so that after a fellow has
flashed down the first hill upon the little iron sledge, comfortably
cushioned, and darted like lightning to the end of the first run, he
only has to have his sledge carried up to the top of the second hill by
the servants employed for the purpose, and start upon the return
journey, and so _ad infinitum_. One learns how to do it after a bit, and
I suppose there is no more delicious sensation on earth than that rush
down and skim along the level--when once you _have_ learned the art;
but, my goodness! one's feelings at the first attempt--eh, Bobby?'
Bobby burst into laughter.
'It is like trying to be an amateur catherine-wheel,' he remarked; 'and
you see plenty of sparks!'
* * * * *
Ralph continued: I was asked to an 'ice-hill party' while I was in St.
Petersburg some years ago. I have always wondered, since, whether the
rascally British residents out there give their ice-hill parties only
when there is a beginner about; certainly the poor wretch must be one of
the main attractions; there was another visitor besides myself, I
remember, that night, and I really don't think I ever laughed quite so
much in my life as I did when he made his first few descents. We were
quits, of course, for my antics were just as ridiculous to him. At these
parties there are generally a few skilful exponents, who show off fancy
ways of going down, and so easy does the thing appear when demonstrated
by them, that the beginner is not greatly alarmed by the prospect before
him.
The platform at the top of the hill is roofed and walled round, and has
room for seats for spectators. There is something hot for them to drink,
and I should say that when there are beginners about, these spectators
must spend a remarkably pleasant evening, for the hot drinks and the
exercise of laughing over the misfortunes of innocent strangers serve
excellently to keep the cold out, and the scene is really extremely
pretty. The 'runs' are outlined by rows of Chinese lanterns hung upon
slender posts; they must not be too thick because of the limbs of the
beginners, which are likely to make very intimate acquaintance with
them, and even beginners must be treated with a certain amount of
consideration. There are a few snow-covered trees showing like ghosts,
here and there, in the semi-darkness, and all the snow which has fallen
during the season upon the ice-runs is swept to either side, and left in
a continuous heap or bank all along. This, too, is an arrangement made
to let down the beginner easily.
They took me, with my fellow-victim, to the top of the hill, and placed
us in seats upon the platform; they spoke bracingly and gave us good
advice; they described the delight of the experience before us--the
fascination of flying through the air, bird-like; some one said it was
'the very poetry of motion'; no one mentioned that there was much prose
to be gone through before one could hope to become one of the poets of
motion.
'Let's see how it's done,' said my fellow-victim, a man called Watson,
'and then I will have a shot.'
I congratulated myself that Watson intended to try the thing before me,
but I congratulated myself too soon. The skilled exponent, selected to
deceive us by demonstrating how easily and safely the descent might be
made, now took his little sledge and placed it upon the large square
ice-slab at the top of the hill. He lay down upon it, on his waistcoat,
his head stretching a little way in front, his legs a long way behind.
Upon his hands were huge leather fingerless gloves, for purposes of
steering, 'You touch the ice gently on the side towards which you want
to go,' he explained. 'Now, watch--there is no difficulty, and you
cannot hurt yourself.'
He allowed himself to slip over the edge. Straight as an arrow his
little sledge darted down the slope; no bird could have flown quicker or
straighter; he reached the level ice-run and fled meteor-like along it;
almost before one realised that he had well started upon his course, he
had reached the end of it. In two minutes he was on his return journey;
down the second hill he flashed, in a moment he was at our side--it was
wonderful!
One or two other exponents went through the same performance; there was
no suggestion of danger or of possible disaster; one simply flew upon
the wings of the wind--that was the impression given by these skilled
deceivers.
'I'll toss you, Denison, who goes first,' said Watson.
We tossed, and, of course, I lost. I always do on these occasions.
'Your shot first, then,' said Watson, and I prepared myself for
execution. The fact that every one of the thirty guests present now
quickly crowded round the ice-slab, which was, as it were, the perch
from which one sprang off into space, struck me as grimly suggestive.
'What happens if one hits a lantern-post?' I asked.
'Oh, they come down,' I was told. 'They can't hurt you; they are very
slender and only stuck lightly in the snow.'
'Steer very gently,' said some one; 'it's best to touch the ice as
little as possible.'
'Keep your head, that's the chief thing,' said another adviser.
'You have got your ticket, haven't you?' remarked a humorist. 'Don't
give it up till you reach the end of the journey.'
Then they put me straight and tipped me over, and for about ten yards I
travelled, by favour of a good start, without incident. The sensation of
tipping over the edge was indescribable; I don't know exactly what my
heart did, but it was evidently highly surprised and disgusted, and
probably thought I had insanely jumped over a cliff; I think it stopped
beating; I felt, for a moment, sick and giddy; I shut my eyes for that
instant.
'Steer to the right!' a deep voice roared from the top of the hill.
Instinctively I obeyed. Instantly my sledge, as though animated by the
desire to look over the wooden parapet which ran, a couple of feet high,
along the slope, jogged and jumped, then turned round, and, with the
small amount of intelligence left in my brain, I became aware that I was
whizzing along backwards. I tried to think of instructions received, but
utterly failed; I endeavoured to keep cool. Where was I? I banged
against something, and the sledge twisted round again; it did its best
to run along sideways for awhile, like a crab; it butted me against a
tree and got itself straight again; then it seemed to take the bit in
its teeth, and, as if determining to get rid of me somehow, steered a
bee-line for a Chinese-lantern post at a distance of thirty yards. I
plunged my hand down, determined to defeat its malicious design, and
instantly the little vehicle began to whizz round and round like a
fire-work at the Crystal Palace. This was the beginning of the end; the
next moment something 'took me in the waistcoat,' and I found myself
waltzing in a sitting posture on the ice, my partner being the
lamp-post, the lantern attached to it swinging wildly. Where was the
sledge? The sound of hoarse laughter from the top of the hill was in my
ears; the waltz ended in darkness and silence; where was I?
It was only a deep bank of snow, of course, and I was soon in the air
once more. I did not know where to look for my sledge--I did not try. I
did not, at the moment, feel well enough disposed towards it to care
what had become of it. Some one fetched it.
I was received at the top of the hill with kind and encouraging words,
intended, of course, to hearten me to provide a second entertainment.
This I did, presently, but first I was resolved to be even with Watson.
'Your turn, old chap,' I said.
Watson looked at me with an expression of despair which was pathetic.
'I wish I knew what mistake you made,' he murmured, weakly. 'Did you
hurt yourself?'
'Not in the least; it's a lovely sensation, to some extent' I said. My
bones were aching all over, but I was determined to be even with
Watson, who had not yet done his share of the entertaining.
Watson gave a glance at the stairs, as though he contemplated a bolt; if
he had attempted to escape, I should have done my best to prevent him.
Perhaps he read my thoughts in my face; he sighed. Presently the poor
wretch was straightened out and started.... It really was very funny,
and I no longer wondered at the heartless mirth of the onlookers. A pea
on a drumhead is a restful object in comparison with Watson on that
ice-hill. His sledge seemed determined from the first moment to rid
itself of the unfortunate man clinging to it; it went everywhere and
sampled every obstacle, and it shot him eventually, as it had shot me,
into a snowheap, with one Chinese lantern twisted by its strings round
his neck, and another, held by the post, in his hand. Watson did not
know how they got there.
Watson and I solemnly shook hands; we were the gladiators of the
occasion, and sympathised with one another. Three or four times did we
suffer for the delight of the crowd; after that we began to become
uninteresting to them, partly because we had carried away all the
Chinese lanterns, and partly because we had begun to learn the art.
MORNING.
'Hullo!' the Blackbird carolled.
'Hullo!' the Woods replied,
'The sun that set in the West last night
Comes up on the other side.'
'Wake! wake!' the Starling chattered,
'For the hand of rising day
Has gripped one edge of the blanket night
And is rolling it all away.'
'Up! up!' the Robin whistled,
'For the Lady Dawn, so bright,
Has come to the broad, dark face of earth,
And is washing it all with light.'
'Out! out!' sang the joyous chorus:
'With a hand of magic care,
She's been to the nooks and corners dark
And scrubbed out the shadows there.'
And then upon snowy pillows
There glittered the blinking sun,
And a thousand thousand eyes awoke
To another day begun.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
XI.--NURSERIES IN THE BIRD-WORLD.
Our survey of Nature's babies so far has been a fairly extensive one,
and many readers of _Chatterbox_ have shown that they were impressed
with the fact that in every case these have come into the world in a
form quite unlike that of their parents. And they have probably also
noticed that where this unlikeness was most striking, there, as a
general rule, these young had to shift for themselves from the moment
they were able to move. Though the majority of these young creatures are
to be found in or around the coasts of Great Britain, many are difficult
to obtain, and only in a very few cases have we met with any display of
care on the part of the parents for their helpless children.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Peregrine Falcon, and young ones.]
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Ringed Plover, and young ones.]
The unlikeness to the parents is most marked, as we have said, where the
young are cast upon the world to look after themselves, often as
microscopic creatures. The reason of this is because they have come from
eggs which were so tiny that they could not contain enough food to
support the growing body within until it had assumed its final shape. In
consequence, the little creature had to start life in some more simple
form, capable of feeding on the tiniest particles of food. This early
development is unavoidable in cases where a single family may number
some hundreds or thousands of individuals. But when only a few young
ones make up a family, you will notice they are more or less jealously
guarded by the parents, and they, furthermore, come into the world more
nearly in the shape they are finally to assume.
Many of you, I hope, when you grow up, will be tempted to try and follow
out these strange life-histories for yourselves. In this article I
propose to describe some of the more interesting forms of young to be
met with among the birds, because here, at any rate, you will be able to
follow up the facts at once; and a very fascinating pursuit you will
find it.
Birds, as every one knows, lay eggs, which, after a time, produce
chicks, some of which, like ducks and chickens, for example, can run
about and pick up food within an hour or two of their escape from the
shell; but for a long time they are most carefully tended by their fond
parents, who will brave many dangers in their defence. Now, the
difference between the young chicken, or the young duck, and their
parents is not very great, and this is because the egg from which they
came contained a large supply of food, so that all the building up of
the body could be carried on inside the shell. This food is represented
by the yolk of the egg, of which there was an enormous store. That this
is so you can see for yourselves, if you break an egg into a cup. The
little spot in the top of the yolk represents the germ of life that is
to form the chick; the rest of the yolk is to be used by that germ as
food.
[Illustration: Fig. 3 Skylark, and young ones.]
As you doubtless know, however, some young birds, like young rooks and
sparrows, thrushes and skylarks, when they leave the egg, are perfectly
bare, blind, and helpless, and have to be fed and brooded by their
mothers for a long time. Other young birds, like young owls, falcons
(fig. 1), and hawks, also leave the egg blind and helpless, but their
bodies are covered with long woolly down. Until quite recently no one
could say why these differences should be, but at last we are beginning
to see a way out of the puzzle. There seems to be no doubt that once
upon a time the young of all birds left the shell in a fully active
state, and clothed in down; further, we know that these early birds were
reared in nurseries amid the tree-tops, and climbed about the branches
by means of their legs and beaks, aided by claws in their wings, till at
last their feathers grew and replaced the down, and they were able to
fly. In course of time some birds took to building their nests on the
ground, perhaps because so many young perished every year by falling
from the trees. On the ground this danger was overcome. But, among those
which chose to stay in the trees, a change was introduced. They took to
laying smaller eggs, containing less food; in consequence, the young
were hatched before they had reached such a forward state of development
as their cousins on the ground; and though this meant far more work for
the parents, who had to feed their helpless and blind little ones, the
change proved beneficial, because, being helpless, they remained quietly
in the nest till their feathers grew, and then they were in no danger of
falling, for they saved themselves by flight. These two devices proved
so successful that they are followed still--probably always will be. The
fact that many young birds which are quite helpless are now reared in
nurseries on the ground, as in the case of young skylarks (fig. 3), is a
fact of interest; for it shows that the parents have chosen this nesting
site comparatively recently, and are of course unable to lay large eggs,
which shall produce active young, like young chickens, at will. They
have acquired the habit, so to speak, of laying small eggs, and cannot
alter it by changing their nesting-place.
[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Tern, with young one.]
Most young birds which leave the eggs in a forward condition have the
down which clothes them curiously striped. This is a device which
enables the young bird to resemble the grass and herbage with which it
is surrounded, and so escape the eye of prowling birds and beasts of
prey. The dark stripes at a little distance look like shadows between
stems of plants, while the lighter stripes represent streaks of light
passing through foliage. When young birds live in the open, as on
shingly beaches, then their down is mottled. How perfectly this
harmonises with the surrounding stones only those who have tried to find
young terns (fig. 4), or young ringed plover (fig. 2), for example, can
tell. But this question of young birds is a big one, and must be taken
up again on some future occasion.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
DR. JOHNSON'S BAD MANNERS.
When Dr. Johnson visited Scotland, he was taken, on his arrival at St.
Andrews, to see the ruins of the castle there. He was sorry to find the
grand old building, like many he had already visited, in ruins, and in
his disappointment he was very rude and overbearing to those who were
guiding him. One of the guides ventured to ask him if he had been
disappointed in his visit to Scotland.
'Sir,' replied the doctor, 'I came to see savage men and savage manners,
and I have not been disappointed.'
'Yes,' replied the Scotchman, 'and we came to meet a man without manners
of any kind, and we have not been disappointed.'
OLD SARUM.
'Can you tell me the way to Old Sarum?' said a tourist, who was roaming
over Salisbury Plain, to a country yokel he came across.
'What!' answered the rustic, 'old Sarah! she be dead last year!' Being
somewhat deaf, he thought the stranger was asking after a cottager, who
had been well known in that part. The site of this old city was not
easily to be found on Salisbury Plain. Where the ancient Sarum once
stood, grew a field of oats, and the rougher ground was pasture-land,
dotted over with remnants of walls and heaps of rubbish. Sarum was a
city of the tribe called the Bilgæ; it existed before the Romans visited
England; it stood in a high and dry part of the large Wiltshire plain,
and the Romans seized it as a capital military position.
Many of those curious remains or tombs are near. They have had the name
of 'barrow' given to them, and in them are discovered, besides bones,
old weapons, jewels, pottery, and other objects. At no great distance is
the Druids' temple of Stonehenge, and the still more remarkable one of
Abury, of which but fragments are left, though it must have been far
grander than Stonehenge. The Saxon King, Egbert, lived chiefly at Old
Sarum, as did several other kings, and in 960 Edgar held a national
council in the city, to consider the best means of expelling the Danes.
William the Conqueror, in 1086, summoned to Sarum, prelates, nobles, and
knights from all parts of England, to discuss new laws. William Rufus
also held a council here. It was in the reign of Henry I. that Sarum
began to decline. The Empress Maud gave handsome gifts to the cathedral
and clergy, but the bishop offended the king, and there were frequent
quarrels between the clergy and the garrison, so that after about 1220,
the inhabitants began to forsake the place, by degrees, and to build
houses at New Sarum, the modern Salisbury.
The old city was very strongly fortified. Around it was a deep moat or
ditch; beyond this, two ramparts; on the higher and inner rampart stood
a wall of flint, chalk, and stone, about twelve feet thick, with
battlements. Only one entrance to the city existed, on the east side. On
the top of the hill, in the centre, was the castle or citadel. From
this, the streets branched off to the walls, Sarum being divided into
two parts, north and south, marked by gates and towers; there were also
ten more towers at equal distances, and alongside the walls ran a
circular street, which went round the whole city. On the north-west side
stood the cathedral and the bishop's palace. Altogether, Old Sarum was
one of the strongest cities England ever had.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 335._)
Jack's face was ashy pale, but his eyes burnt as if with some hidden
fire. Estelle was half frightened; yet some inkling of the truth began
to dawn faintly on her. She shrank back; but the thought that had come
to her seemed so impossible that she conquered her terror.
'Yes,' she said, softly, looking up into Jack's face, 'and his greatest
wish, the very greatest he has on earth, is--what do you think? To hear
that the man who injured him has not been made a bad man by what he had
done. He wants him to repent, and he wants him to know that he _has_
forgiven him. Dick was afraid that the man might think he had killed
him, and that the thought might make him desperate.'
'The man seems to have done harm enough,' cried Jack, in a stony voice,
turning away, and walking down the steps towards the edge of the cliff.
'But Dick has forgiven it all, indeed he has, Jack,' she urged.
But Jack did not appear to hear. He stood with his back to her, gazing
out to sea. Suddenly he turned and came hack, seating himself at her
side. His face was very white, but his expression was resolute.
'Missie,' he said, looking full at her, but speaking in a very low
voice, 'I am afraid I am going to give you a great shock. You have told
me the story of Dick Peet; I will tell you the story of the man who
injured him.'
'Oh, Jack! dear Jack, it is not you! Do say it is not you!' cried
Estelle, tears in her eyes.
'I wish I could!' returned Jack, with a heavy sigh, his head clasped in
his hands. But, looking up again, he went on: 'Though what you have told
me--that Dick is alive--is a great relief to my mind, after thinking all
these years that I had killed him, still I can never forgive myself the
frightful outburst of temper that made me do it, nor the bitter
consequences--not only to my dear mother, but to poor Dick himself and
his family. Unhappily, we cannot undo the past, though we would gladly
give our lives to do it.'
Again Jack's head went down on his hands, and he groaned.
'Dear Jack,' whispered Estelle, putting her hand on his arm to show
something of what she felt for him, 'I wish I could recollect all that
Aunt Betty said; it would comfort you, I know. But I do remember this:
she said we must not let our faults conquer us, for small beginnings
made great endings. Perhaps you did not take care of the little things
when you were young, and so it ended in that terrible rage. But, dear,
dear Jack, ever since that dreadful day, you must have been trying to
conquer, or you would never be the good, kind Jack you are now. Why, I
have never seen you out of temper the whole time I have been here. I
can't see that you have _any_ faults now.'
Jack smiled grimly, but the smile ended in a sigh.
'It is your kind heart that makes you think that, Missie. I have faults
enough and to spare, but I hope all this trouble has made a better man
of me. For one thing, it has shown me to what lengths my temper would
go. I was indeed brought up with a round turn! I nearly went out of my
mind. But for my mother I should have gone to the bad straight away.
Though it very nearly did for her, too, she kept up for my sake, and
brought me round in time. I ought to have given myself up to justice,
but I could not make up my mind to bring disgrace upon her publicly; so,
right or wrong, I did not do it. We fled from England, and at Cherbourg
I fell in with some of the Tout-Petit fishing fleet, and threw in my lot
with them. That's how we came here. It will be good news indeed to my
dear mother that the result of my rage was not so bad as it might have
been, though it has been bad enough.'
'Dick has forgiven that,' repeated Estelle, earnestly. 'He has indeed,
and no one but you, and he, and I know anything about it.'
'Are you sure, Missie? It seems too wonderful to believe! If I thought
so--why, I would go and see him when I take you home. It would please
him, you say; and--and--well, I would like to ask---- '
'For what, Jack?'
'I would like to hear him say himself that he forgives---- '
He hid his face in his hands and groaned. Ruined for life, but _not
dead_. Frightfully, hopelessly injured, but generous, forgiving! He
could understand that Dick--the young handsome Dick of his
recollection--had prayed for his destroyer, and--thank God--had not
prayed in vain. It was, indeed, a deeply repentant, broken-hearted man
who sat there in the spring sunshine with bowed head, and bitter sorrow
for a deed which could not be undone.
As Estelle looked at Jack's figure, and saw the shudder which now and
again passed over him, her pity was perhaps greater for this sufferer
than it was for poor Dick. Her eyes were blinded with tears.
'Jack,' she said, when she could command her voice, 'dear kind Jack, you
never refuse me anything. Don't say "no" to what I am going to ask you
now.'
A murmur was the only reply.
'What I want you to do will not make you more miserable, Jack, and it
will be a great kindness to poor Dick. Give him the pleasure of knowing
what a good fellow you are now, and how miserable and sorry you are. He
_does_ forgive, you know, and he is so anxious about you, though he
cannot speak properly, and tell you as he would if he were well.'
'You are sure he would wish it?'
'I am certain.'
'Missie,' he said, raising his despairing face, 'look at the position I
am in. You are but a child, but your kind heart can understand as few
older persons seem to do. If I go to see Dick Peet, I am proclaiming my
sin to the world; and who is the sufferer?--my mother! I deserve no
mercy, and for my own sake I would not spare myself one grain of shame
or misery, for it was a black deed, brutally done in a frenzy of envy.
But Mother--ah! Missie, you don't know what a mother she has been to me.
She has sacrificed her whole life, and does not _think_ it a sacrifice!'
'But if Dick can and does forgive, Jack,' said Estelle, 'would not Goody
be glad that you have it from his own lips? Would she not feel you were
better, more the real kind Jack she loves, if you _asked_ for that
forgiveness, though Dick does give it so freely? Oh, Jack, here is your
chance of making amends; here is your chance of telling Dick how grieved
your are.'
There was a long silence.
'I'll do it,' said Jack, rousing himself. 'I'll speak to my mother
to-night.'
He started up and walked to the cliff, and stood close to the edge, as
if he wanted to get as far away from the earth as possible.
Estelle buried her face in her hands, and longed for Aunt Betty, for
Goody, for anybody wiser and older than herself. How long she sat, her
mind full of hopes and prayers, she did not know. Suddenly she became
conscious of some movement near. Looking up, startled, she saw Thomas
creeping up to Jack. Jack's back was towards him, and one push would
have sent him off the edge of the cliff, into the depths below. She
screamed in her terror. Jack turned and faced his enemy.
Thomas did not retreat. He was too desperate. His hopes were dead, and
his sole chance was in destroying the man who stood in his path. He
flung himself upon Jack, with a confused notion that if he could not
hurl him over the cliff, they might both go over together. At any rate,
Jack should not get that profit out of the Earl's daughter to which he
thought he himself had the sole right. He fought in wild despair,
striking out, clinging to Jack's arms and legs, and throwing his weight
on him in the mad effort to bear him down, or force him over the
precipice. Jack could not understand his insane fury, and tried at first
simply to overpower him, in order to hear what he was about, and ask him
questions. But Thomas had no intention of being questioned. He wanted to
get rid of this man once and for all. If Estelle had not screamed, he
would have done it, too. He would pay her out for that, he thought, if
he could be the winner in this struggle.
To his dismay, however, he found he was getting decidedly the worst of
it. Jack was a giant in strength as well as in height. Finding the man
would not listen to reason, he put out his strength, and Thomas soon
found himself spinning along the ground at breakneck speed, considerably
the worse for the handling he had received. Stunned and bruised, he lay
like a log where he fell, and Jack let him lie, after a glance to see he
was not much hurt.
Taking Estelle's hand, Jack led her towards the village, but the little
girl, upset and shaken as she was by the fierce struggle she had
witnessed, looked back once or twice at the prostrate Thomas. Jack
appeared excited and angry, but did not speak all the way home.
(_Continued on page 346._)
[Illustration: "He flung himself upon Jack."]
[Illustration: Good-bye to Tout-Petit.]
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(_Continued from page 343._)